Those That Go Unbound
by Panzerfaust26
Summary: As the Cylons ravage the Colonies and exterminate the human race, they will find themselves at odds with an ancient menace, whose destiney is intertwined with that of the Galactica and her fleet of survivors. Homeworld 2 influences.
1. Preface

Hello! This is my first submission to this site so please bear with me through any mishaps that may come about. It's been something I've wanted to post for a while but it took the premiere of Battlestar Razor to get me back in the spirit. Some of you will immediately notice the similarities between my early protagonists and the Vaygr from Homeworld 2. They, in essence, ARE the Vaygr, with a modified back-story and transplanted to the Battlestar universe. It's been a daydream of mine for a while and I hope it strikes a positive chord with fans from both series. So please, rate and comment! And enjoy!


	2. Those That Go Unbound Prelude

Those Who Go Unbound

**Prelude: Requiem **

And so it was that the 13 tribes of man left Kobol, the home of the gods, and each set out in his own direction to find his destiny. 12 entered the great and ancient galleon, and 12 colonies were founded. Such is what is written in the Holy Scriptures; all of this has happened before and all of this will happen again.

However, the ancient scribes that set these verses into stone also saw it fit to leave out some of the more, "unpleasant", details of this transition. In particular, they eradicated any records of one ill-fated race, whose name has been lost in the sands of time for longer than any can remember.

When one tribe of ancient colonists landed on the planet they called Sagittarius, they found a gorgeous new home rich in natural resources and filled with potential. However, they also found the last thing they expected; something that would rattle the foundations of all those that follow in the beliefs of the Lords of Kobol today. Lies, sacrilege, blasphemy; the truth would be called all these things, but words cannot make the truth go away.

Days after their initial landing, the colonists came across an advanced human civilization. A civilization with an unbendable belief in one true god. Conflict erupted, and the tribe of Sagittarius found itself unable to defeat the original inhabitants themselves. They called upon their 11 brothers to assist them, and the ancient inhabitants were eventually crushed by the 12 tribes. And the tribe of Sagittarius was free to develop as they wished. However, they were now indebted to their brothers, who had bled so that they could prosper; the result was the series of events that would lead to the colony of Sagittaron being the neglected and disenfranchised colony it is today.

Broken and bitter, every one of the original inhabitants that survived the genocide was exiled off the planet in a rag-tag fleet barely worthy of the name. The Colonials simply saw it fit to overwrite and ignore their very existence, and it was not long before they were forgotten. Wandering the desolate moons and asteroids on the eastern fringe of the Colonial System on conventional spacecraft drives, they led a desperate struggle to scratch out the necessities of life.

Because their relic-like ships were not designed with this kind of journey in mind, they were exposed to incredible hardships in the form of oxygen shortages, gravity-free environments, radiation exposure due to poor cosmic shielding, and deficiencies attributable to the lack of sunlight and essential vitamins. The results were at first horrific; much of the first generation born to the survivors in space was horribly deformed. The afflicted infants were deemed weak, or cursed by the gods of their enemies, and were thrown out of airlocks. Forced evolution and "unnatural selection" melded in this way; the survivors' bodies slowly began adjusting on the genetic level to harsh life in space. Shorter life spans were compensated by quicker learning abilities and reactions, stronger bodies and higher resistance to disease. The Exiles, completely human when they began their journey, were becoming something…different. Something stronger…

Many years went by, and violence began to erupt within the fleet as vital supplies became evermore scarce and the people squabbled over how to proceed with their existence. Ultimately, the Exiles split into 8 roving bands called the Crusades, led by warlords in whose veins flowed the blood of the original royal family that had reigned over their race.

Some Crusades simply faded away into the depths of space, their derelict ships joining the great cosmic rings of rock and dust that encircled nearby gas giants. The majority, though, eventually made their way back into the Colonial System. They were led by disillusioned and vengeful warlords who intended to uphold the oaths of retribution their forefathers had made. Scattered and muddled about the system, and armed with ancient vessels operable only through constant repair, they began a legacy of guerilla warfare upon the frontier of the 12 Colonies; raiding outlying settlements and industries, boarding lone freighters and transports. Their homes became large stationary outposts and shipyards hidden in the great dust clouds and asteroid fields on the fringes of the system; any that are threatened by Colonial capture are self-destructed, and the Exiles move on. Their boarding crews took to wearing intimidating, dark armor and helmets, rigged to self-detonate as well if capture were imminent; as a result, no Colonial has ever seen the face of an Exile since, resulting in wild theories of their origin and appearance. The people of the 12 tribes, now completely oblivious as to who these invaders were and where they came from, gave them the name they now live by; the Vrijbuiters, or Pirates.

Sadly, as years went by and the present day came about, the mantle of holy retribution was undone and degenerated into exactly that; piracy. Simple and noble raids twisted into massacres; men were killed or used for slave labor, woman were abducted and raped, and settlements were razed to the ground. Records regarding the Exile's origins became nothing more than legends of withering influence. Furthermore, the bloodline of the Exiles began to dissolve as the ranks of the Crusades were flooded by pirates and anarchists of Colonial birth, which were happily recruited by the warlords to increase their strength. Some Crusades began picking fights with the recently established Colonial Fleet, resulting in an active conflict between the two. In the aftermath of the first Cylon War and the subsequent armistice, the Vrijbuiters were ranked by the Colonial High Command as the greatest threat to civilization, and an ongoing military effort aimed at their complete destruction was in motion. They have been demonized, and are feared and hated as the warmongering children of the fringe. It is a tragedy; the Exiles no longer remember why they raid, pillage, and roam the emptiness of space, but they continue to do so anyways. It is all they know, and is likely all they will ever know. Not one can remember the name of the great race from which he descended. Only one thing links them to their eternal heritage; upon the bow of each of their vessels, drawn in black or white paint, is the emblem that once served as the seal of the royal family; a chamfered triangle enclosing a curved scorpion's tail of eight segments, each representing one of the original Crusades.

Such is the fate of the majority of Exiles. But there is one more story to tell; one that has become as prominent and beloved a legend among the Vrijbuiters as the story of Earth has become among the Colonials. The story of Makaan's Crusade.

Makaan was the descendant of the man once heir to the throne of the Exile race, prior to their banishment from their homeworld. When the Exiles split into the Crusades, he led his nomadic band from his flagship, the Providence, deep into uncharted space, and in the complete opposite direction of the other Crusades. Makaan, who had every right to be embittered and blinded by rage, was instead convinced that their eviction was God's will. He embraced the changes their bodies had undergone, stating that, "We were once weak; we could not protect our homes, our way of life, or even our faith. We have been ousted by heathens; but little do they know, that they have in fact set us free."

The legend goes on to state that his Crusade traveled on for many years, until they were halted by the occurrence of a nearby supernova. Safely sitting at its edge, watching it unfold before him, Makaan, now said to be an old man, proclaimed that this was a sign from God to end their journey; they had found their new home. When his aides pointed out to him that there was absolutely no nearby planet to colonize, he was said to have laughed heavily for the last time of his life.

"Boy, are you still so bound to the old way of thinking? If there is no home here, it is only because we have yet to build it!"

With that, the Exiles set to doing what no other race has done before. Where there was but emptiness sprang up an empire of interconnected satellite cities, stretching for kilometers across. New Providence, it was called; a new home that could never be taken away from those who had sacrificed and toiled to raise them.

This is what the old among the Vrijbuiters maintain; an obscure and dubious tale whose sole purpose is to sustain some tie to the dying spirit of their past. How delighted these old guard of the Exiles would be, if they only knew how much truth they actually spoke…


	3. Phase 1: Unexpected Guests

Something I forgot to do in the previous chapters. I do not own BSG or Homeworld.

Sorry it took so long for the update guys (damn school).

**Phase 1: Unexpected Guests **

Approximately 30 minutes before the initial Cylon attacks

"Seth, you're 40 seconds behind schedule; get your squadron into place NOW or I'll have your beating heart!" barked Enosh. The ancient warlord's deep and merciless voice was made even more so by the coarse metallic interference of the Wireless radio. Abel jumped at the arrant rebuke of his underling, and would have hit the triangular canopy of tinted glasteel that lay less than 3 inches above him had it not been for the multiple straps that held him in a prone position inside of his cramped, elongated cockpit. The 20-year-old wisely adjusted the volume on the wiry headset that sat over his right ear before returning his hands to the twin, C-shaped control sticks that laid before his partially outstretched arms, on either side of his blue-tinted Heads Up Display. Behind him, his feet tentatively tapped against the thruster pedals, matching the nervous tempo of agitated heartbeats that pounded through his formfitting black piloting suit and the heavy armored vest he wore over it. The overwhelming urge to scream coiled around his chest like a serpent. _I hate waiting…_

With a gentle hiss of burning chemical propellant, the silhouette of another AR-2 Stinger Assault Craft made its way beside Abel's, becoming visible at the corner of the gaunt, rigid canopy. These were the icons of the would-be Virjbuiter nation; covered in a fierce pattern of black and gray stripes, long and spearhead shaped, with an incredibly compacted, lay-down styled cockpit and an angular, off-axis fuselage that widened slightly towards the back to accommodate an oversized engine and 4 short, arcing "ridges" in a cross-shaped configuration rather than the conventional 2 outstretched wings. The Stingers, constructed from and maintained by whatever the Crusade could cannibalize during its travels, were incredibly fast and unpredictable fighters, easily modified and refined to their master's tastes. But with overwhelming speed came significant sacrifices in durability and stability; so much so that the Colonial heathens had taken to calling them and their pilots "Suicides". Ironically, it was not a title that many of the pirates despised outright; already some members of the Crusade had contentedly taken to calling the collective Stinger squadron the Suicide Corps rather than the traditional designation of the Swarm.

Abel could not hope to see through the dark tint of his new neighbor's canopy; like everything Vrijbuiter, they had been specifically designed to keep their occupants as anonymous entities. However, when he could clearly see the vivid green and red scratches of the fighter's nose art, which vaguely took the form of a scowling dragon, he knew this to be Isembi, his faithful second in command. Surely enough, the voice of his older comrade soon resonated in his headset.

"I can hear your heartbeat from here, brother."

"It is but excitement, Isembi. I pray you do not think otherwise." Abel smirked as he responded, acknowledging his own juvenile behavior. It had been 4 years since he had last participated in a raid; never before had he been in command of a Swarm of this magnitude. Many of the older pilots still glared resentfully at him as he walked down the halls of their carrier, the Kimora; they had no idea how a bastard child from the obscurest of families, could somehow become the youngest man to ever take command of an entire Crusade's Swarm. In truth, neither did Abel.

As the appointed time drew near, numerous other Stingers had begun condensing behind Abel and Isembi; all 10 squadrons of Enosh's Crusade were there, numbering 70 veteran dogfighters altogether. Far behind them, the proud capital ships assumed their positions as well. 2 destroyers, the Hassan and the Ziegler, rumbled loudly as they moved their rectangular hulls into formation; 2 narrower, asymmetric rectangular sections were mounted at the middle of their broadsides and starboards at an inward-facing 45 degree angle of a cross-section that extended forwards, with the right side almost doubling the ships' overall length and giving them a distinct off-axis profile similar to that of the Stingers. Between them, the flagship and core of the Crusade resided in the form of the Kimora. It was a virtual razor in space, with length and height comparable to that of a Colonial Battlestar, but incredibly narrow with a blade of a nose and a rigid hull that widened only twice; once at the vessel's midpoint to accommodate the gargantuan, underbelly-situated assault craft berths and production facilities, and again at the very rear, where the enormous, cylinder-shaped drives belched savage white flames and propelled the ship.

Contained in his cockpit, an eternity seemed to pass in Abel's skittish mind as the battle formations were fashioned and the plans finalized by Enosh and his Inner Circle. Utterly out of things to do, he took to strangling the necks of the control sticks, trying to feel the rough, friction-inducing texture through the thickness of his suit's gloves, up until his hardened and callused knuckles went white and numb. _I really hate waiting…_he reminded himself.

After what had seemed like hours to the skittish Abel, Enosh's voice once again sounded upon the wireless, momentarily stripped of its intimidating rage and now dripping with valiance.

"Brothers, I have no desire to delay you with foolish converse. You are not Colonial gentiles; you do not require hours of false promises and propaganda before you will fight. I know that some of you would like nothing more than for me to shut up and give the order already."

The old man chuckled then; a rare and precious noise that was met with fervent whoops by the pirates. Abel cheered as well, lightheartedly wondering if the warlord wasn't psychic as well.

A few seconds passed before Enosh resumed in earnest. "But know what is at stake. For some 50 years this clan has been wracked by corruption and inner fighting. Our influence among our brothers has dwindled to almost naught; and with needless cruelty they ravage the system with their ranks of Colonial renegades, marring our name in the process."

Abel raised his right hand off of the stick and banged his gauntlet against the reinforced canopy, emitting a strong thud into his Wireless. It was instantly augmented by a thunderous drumbeat as every pilot in the Swarm banged a hand against their own canopies, and every crewman aboard the capital ships did likewise against a nearby metal wall; a longstanding tradition symbolizing their unity through the illusion of a fleet wide heartbeat.

"But these years have shown us the errors of our ways; the mistake we made in welcoming pagans into our ranks. The furnace of a half-century of conflict has purged us of their influences and returned us to a state of purity."

There came another strike upon the drum that spanned the entire Crusade; this one seemingly faster and louder.

"And here we stand as one race, on the verge of greatness and redemption; the future of our Crusade, our eternal place in this universe…all of it is in your capable hands. You know what must be done, and I know you shall do it."

A final beat from all 6,000 Vrijbuiter souls, aboard every ship and vessel of the Crusade. Men, woman, teenagers…an entire society was prepared to dive headfirst into the fray. They had needed no encouragement to begin with, but the brilliant warlord had found a way to further infuriate the flames that raged among them.

There was nothing left to wait for; no turning back now. Abel, who was at the forefront of the pack, bared witness as the massive Hyperspace Gate was maneuvered into position by its single thruster, stopping directly in front of him, it seemed. From the spherical core, the 4 thick "arms" of the device extended outwards until they formed a massive X shape, and a pulsating lime-green aura began to radiate and hum around its edges.

"First wave, away!" shouted Enosh, and the Wireless was instantly swamped by the bold shouts of the Swarm. A deafening buzz filled Abel's ears, and a strange quivering sensation deep in his gut joined the nervousness and anxiety that had already found their places there. His amethyst-colored Vrijbuiter eyes, conditioned by centuries of artificial light and the dark listlessness of outer space, were temporarily blinded by the fierce green radiance that suddenly filled his cockpit.

And then… nothing. Nothing but the feeling of being wisped upon a gentle wind, going to some untold destination while he felt every erratic beat of his heart…

The target had been the Aurora Cluster. Made up of 7 large asteroids that had been caught in a painfully slow orbit around the backwater colony of Sagittaron, it had been known for years as a prime location for tylium harvesting; and at the moment the Caprica-based Archer Corporation had managed to secure a tentative monopoly on the site. 6 of their largest refinery ships had presently hovered above the most heavily developed rock, Aurora Prime; massive, flattened gray and blue vessels, vaguely shaped like figure 8's lying horizontally, with lengthy slit-like bays along their sides to hold their tiny fleets of harvesters and provide a drop-off point for said harvester's valuable loads of raw ore to be conveyed into the ship's interior refinery. Each vessel was crewed by approximately 200 foremen; 90 of which were Sagittaron blue-collars drafted from the planet below, and the other 10 being hard-assed officers imported from the main branch to scream orders at the former.

Having been there for less than a month, the Archer Corp. had put minimal effort into developing the ground-level harvesting operations. Most essential work was done on the cramped refineries, and that was efficient enough for the moment. The comfort of the underprivileged crew was hardly an issue for the corporate giant; their indistinct plans for future improvement were consistently swept under the proverbial mat of procrastination. However, in its haste Archer had, knowingly or not, placed an immense amount of their capital in a half-dozen barely armed vessels, staffed with highly disgruntled employees and situated in an under patrolled portion of Colonial space.

All of these factors had not gone unnoticed by the pirates, whom over the past 4 weeks had meticulously probed the mining site while avoiding detection, memorizing every detail of the daily mining schedule. At long last members of Enosh's Crusade, having been disenfranchised and greatly weakened in this region for the past few decades do to bitter inner-fighting, stealthily towed a Hyperspace/FTL Gate into position behind one of the less developed and surveyed asteroids. And for several days had it sat, fallow and silent. When it finally did open, filling the surrounding space with its eerie green radiance, its users would find that they were not the only ones that had interest in the site…

As suddenly as the lightning streaks across the sky, the 4 pylons that sat bundled in front of the Hyperspace Gate expanded apart from one another into the vast and distinctive X shape; its formerly bland gray aura was instantly washed away by a vivid green flash and an immense, pulsating buzz. A horde of black spearheads now drifted in the shadow of the asteroid.

After a long, deep breath, Abel's eyes flashed open; their violet pupils overflowed with embers as he hammered down on the thrust pedal. Immediately his custom-tuned Stringer shot forwards on a massive jet of intense orange-white fire, rocketing him away from the opposite Gate and around the jagged horizon of the rock. His heart throbbed in his chest as the inertial pressure flowed down his prone body and pressed against his eyeballs, all the while straining his hold on the control sticks. More roars and high pitched whines resounded as his compatriots formed up around him, hurtling like deadly darts around the bend of the asteroid's horizon. Nothing could compare to this feeling; nothing could stand against the Vrijbuiter in his natural domain.

But as Abel tore over the jagged cliff face and into view of the mining site, he saw three things occurring at the same time. Things that were not suppose to be happening.

Below him, the rock's surface was charred and cratered to a great extent; the few Archer facilities supposedly located there were replaced by blackened ruble and ruin. Simultaneously, he noticed 4 refinery vessels fleeing the site in the direction of Sagittaron, which hung nearby against the black background of space like a massive blue-green stage. The vessel bringing up the rear was limping along nosily, its hull partially gutted and bleeding smoke and atmosphere. Finally, and perhaps most alarmingly unexpected, was the fact that a dozen or so unidentified craft were pursing them. They were like nothing Abel had ever witnessed before, with an elongated, oval shaped core and 2 large, scythe-like wings that extended forwards threateningly. They emitted ominous screeches and hums as they suddenly shifted direction, and after an instant of uncertainty, rocketed directly towards the Vrijbuiter Swarm. Where Abel assumed the cockpits would be, burning red spheres suddenly appeared and began to steadily oscillate, causing an icy pit to suddenly form in Abel's gut. He was far too young to have seen the Cylon War, but Hirah, his surrogate father, had been among the elite raiders chosen to board Cylon Basestars in those glorious days of old. On his deathbed a mere 4 months ago, he had described to his foster son the immense booty they'd acquire from such operations, and the trill of close-quarters combat with an army of metallic soldiers. With his last breath he ranted on about the "metal Cyclops's" and their "crimson eyes", which would swing back and forth up until the moment of their demise.

"Abel…" Isembi murmured hesitantly as he watched the scene unfold; he too had been subject to such legends for most of his life. Before Abel could answer, his Wireless screeched piercingly, almost inspiring him to rip it out of his ear. At the same time, his HUD suddenly became filled with streams of incoherent text, and for a fleeting instant the roaring thrust of his Stinger's engine was interrupted. Abel felt his craft jerk awkwardly as it was momentarily restarted, and he had to fight to bring the Stinger back under control. His HUD flickered off once, and then returned with no evidence of its former maladies. He heard as alarmed chatter began to erupt among the Swarm as they experienced their own brief lapses.

"I think they just tried to blink us…" Abel announced, referring to the tactic of using some form of electronic warfare to disorganize and stun an enemy. A tactic usually reserved for the Vrijbuiter. As the dozen craft continued to advance into weapons range, Abel drowned out his ambiguity and ordered decisively, "Cylon or not, they've made a hostile advance towards the Crusade. Take em down!"

Abel was not at all surprised by the enthusiastic, almost relived chorus of cheers that resounded from his pilots. While the raid on the Auroras had promised to be large-scale and fast-paced, it would not be one of much actual combat. The Suicide Corps had prayed all night, begging the Almighty Lord that the rumors of a bribed Colonial battle group extending their patrol to include the Aurora cluster were true. Now they had a material enemy in their sights, apparently itching for a fight just as badly as they were.

The Raiders, as Hirah used to refer to Cylon interceptor craft, apparently had a great deal of confidence in their electronic weapons, because they had yet to break their tight formations as they advanced, making them, in essence, fish in a barrel. With a certain relish, Abel lined up the lead Raider with the crosshair on his HUD, and then fiercely depressed the trigger on the right side control stick. In spite of the intense noise that filled the scene all around him, Abel still distinctly heard the pleasing mechanical screech as the large-caliber kinetic-energy minigun, lodged deep within the fuselage under and behind the Stinger's nose, warmed up for a fleeting moment. Its 3 cylindrical heads, each made up of 3 individual barrels, spun in a dizzying fast circle, just before a blinding indigo flash and a sharp succession of high-pitched pops. A wild stream of tracer rounds erupted forwards, and after a brief time in flight drilled into the core of the adversary, reducing it into a fleeting fireball before it had even offered any form of resistance. 5 more fireballs appeared as 5 more Raiders were shot down in a similar fashion by Abel's wingmen, before the reminder of Cylon craft whizzed by his squadron. Only now apparently aware of their situation, the Raiders armed their underbelly-mounted cannons and began to arc around to engage the Stingers. But Abel's squadron, made up of veteran pilots and mounted on craft bred for whiplash-inducing turns, had already banked around and opened up on the remaining bandits; at the same time, the rest of the Swarm had caught up to the engagement, and they also peppered the Raiders as they approached, resulting in a deadly crossfire that only 2 Cylon craft emerged from.

The last 2 Raiders peeled away from the engagement. A blinding white flash suddenly occurred over each of them along with a signature metallic whir, before they vanished into thin air.

"FTL jump confirmed," Isembi reported as the Swarm reorganized itself amidst cheers and huzzas. A few moments later, and a similarly intense flash of a green hue occurred as the Kimora, Hassan, and Ziegler jumped in at the pre-appointed time, expecting to see a sprawling prize and perhaps the familiar forms of a Colonial battle group in the distance. Instead they were met with the ravaged surface of Aurora Prime and a few new clouds of debris formed by destroyed Raiders.

Abel could almost see the expression on the warlord's face as Enosh roared over the wireless, "Abel, sitrep, now!"

Slightly flustered by the dogfight, and now intimidated by the command, Abel had to compose himself before he responded, "Lord Enosh, we engaged 12 Cylon Raiders upon exiting the Gate; all but 2 were destroyed, and those proceeded to FTL away. I can assume that they were responsible for the destruction of the surface facilities…"

"Boy!" Enosh interjected, his tone now a confusing mix of wrath and incredulity. "You had best choose your next few words with caution. You say you engaged Cylon Raiders?"

Abel swallowed and shook his head, "Yes, Lord Enosh. 12 of them. From what Hirah told me in his lifetime, I could identify them as such."

An unbearable era of silence seemed to commence; Abel nearly jumped when Enosh inquired, seemingly undisturbed by the revelation, "And the secondary targets? The refineries?"

Abel observed as the mining vessels continued to move away at a torpid rate. "They are here, trying to retreat towards the planet. One of them was wounded in the attack, so they are not going anywhere fast on conventional drives. Although, I imagine by now they have spun up their FTLs."

"Acknowledged. Then we shall deploy the Well to thwart their escape. Get your squads ready to cover the boarding operations when they are pulled back." Enosh concluded. Abel confirmed his orders, and set aside his lingering thoughts of the Cylon reappearance to the task at hand. "Isembi, let's get moving."

Abel once again hammered down on the thrust pedal, and accelerated towards the fleeing Archer vessels. Apparently, they had scuttled the wounded ship; its crew members had escaped via harvesters into the bays of the other 3 survivors, which had now begun to shimmer in waves of white light. Once again, there came the trio of all too familiar whirs, before they seemed to vanish. Abel carefully watched the DRADIS scope mounted to the left of his HUD, while Shem, the youngest member of his 7 man squadron mocked, "You'd think they'd learn by now…stupid heathens…"

Less than 3 seconds after jumping away, their came an atrocious, echoing moan as a series of distorted flashes occurred; in their wake sat the refinery ships, flipped upside-down and rotating in lazy arcs, less than a hundred meters from where they had just been. It took a moment for the shocked and probably shaken-up crews to fire off the ships' thrusters to stabilize themselves. "Welcome back, boys," Shem was first to comment again, and was rewarded with the chuckles of many pilots.

There was no escape from the pirates; so long as the Kimora sat in the area, and the Gravity Well generator mounted on the rear starboard was operational, any vessel attempting to enter FTL travel would be generously yanked back. Such was the most frightening of the pirate's abilities; utilized for generations by the Vrijbuiter but still remaining only an unconfirmed and highly superstitious rumor among the Colonials, who after so many years were still at an utter loss at explaining or countering the phenomenon, which was still marked as "coincidental FTL drive failures" in their official records.

"Archer fleet," stated Enosh over the general Wireless frequencies. His lion's roar instantly silenced the rowdy ovations of his pilots, which had shifted direction to surround the refineries' new locations. "We apologize for the suddenness of our visit, despite the nature of the first of your first guests. I am Enosh, 8th leader of this grand Crusade, and I'm pleased to inform you that your vessels shall be the newest augmentations to our forces."

Huzzas momentarily filled the airwaves before he continued, "There are "emissaries" on their way to your ships. Please, provide them with a warm welcome and direct them to your bridge, where they will handle the rest. You have suffered enough losses today, and I should not have to remind you that you breathe now only because of the efforts of my men. So please, do not make the mistake of forcing the good ambassadors to find their own way up." A slight pause for dramatic effect, before he touched up on that note, "I would like to remind all the crewmembers and employees serving under Archer that we are not murderers, though I cannot say the same for all of all our lost brothers. We our appalled and mortified by the Crusade of Geoban, and the acts they have carried out in the recent years."

Abel, who had situated himself in front of the lead refinery, coughed awkwardly at that moment, as did many other pilots within the Swarm. No one liked to be reminded that while they were here trying to civilly induce a peaceful surrender from their prey, the largest and best-organized Crusade of Vrijbuiters was almost certainly off slaughtering at that very moment.

"So long as you continue to cooperate, you will find yourselves safely upon Sagittaron's surface within the hour."

While the warlord still spoke, Abel observed as a line of 8 Vrijbuitor corvettes exited the Kimora's underbelly bay. They were thin, narrow rectangular boxes, with flattened platform-like outriggers jutting from their sides and a prominent, tapered, swept-back mast emerging from the dorsal and extending back nearly the vessel's length. Significantly heavier and larger than a Stinger, they were crewed by 3 but had cramped compartments for up to 10 passengers, while the mast served as an amplifying antennae with which communications were greatly improved, commands more effectively issued, and operations more efficiently coordinated. The result was an incredibly flexible craft, capable of adding weight to the Stinger swarms via racks of high-yield missiles, serving as command posts deep in the field, and shining as the preferred mode of transportation for the Vrijbuiter's infamous boarding parties, generally known as Templers.

But as the corvettes made their ways towards the first refinery, an arrant beep sounded in Abel's cockpit, as a large red splotch suddenly appeared in the midst of his DRADIS scope. The acolyte in charge of the DRADIS back in the Kimora's tower-mounted CIC quickly announced, "New contact at Sierra 2-7. Unidentified configuration, but its big. Based on its position I think it was on its way towards Sagittaron when the Well pulled it in."

"Now what?" Abel uttered as he scanned the portside.

Approximately 5000 meters away from the Swarm, there came another large wave of distorted white illumination. When the shifting light subsided, a massive edifice was left in its wake to blot out the sun, made up of 2 enormous, elongated Y-shaped halves connected at their centers by a stalk-like cross section. The outer facing hull was sleek and glistened with reflected light, while the inner stalk was almost organically textured and twinkling with faint slabs of blue luminance. Just like the refineries, it had been put into a moderate spin by the Well's interference, and seemed to be desperately attempting to steady itself in spite of the absence of any obvious sub-light propulsion.

"…what the frak is THAT?" Isembi inquired, not able to hide the uncertainty in his voice. Once again various chatter broadcasted across the wireless. Abel heard Shem comment naively, "Looks kinda like a star, don't it?"

But despite his innocence in the matter, Abel's youngest subordinate had just opened another icy pit in his gut, as a distressing thought formulated in his mind. With frozen fingers digging into his spine, Abel muttered, "…a Basestar…"

The wireless line crackled uncomfortably as the young pirates observed the new foe, nowhere near the point of fear but flirting at the line of intimidation. Uncertain, Abel was the first to speak, "Lord Enosh, what are your orders?"

Much to Abel's surprise, and to his temporary horror for that matter, the warlord let lose a bellowing laugh that caused more than a few heads to turn in his CIC. Abel could practically see the perplexed look on his pilots' faces as their Stingers hovered nearby. But Enosh spoke before any further questions could be raised.

"Sons and daughters of the Fringe, rejoice! We came to this place expecting a stepping stone on the way to greatness, but The Almighty Lord has seen it fit to make our lowly clan into legends right here and now! The first Cylon war, as your fathers have surely told you, was the golden age of the Vrijbuiter. 2 vast, preoccupied empires and their overstretched supply lines were at our mercy; your forebears proved themselves in legendary battles and spectacular raids. Never again did I think I would see another time such as that."

Abel had no idea how the old man did it, but the Swarm was apparently as riled up as they had been when they first gated in, as the Wireless once again resounded with a unified and deafening beat, supported by a chorus of eager whispers.

"But behold! We stand on the verge of the 2nd Cylon War, and it shall be Vrijbuiter, not Colonial, that strikes the first blow against the metal demons! Rejoice; your names shall be remembered by all as we enter this new age of history! Forwards, my brothers! Forwards!"

No matter how old he would grow to be, Abel would never forget the sound he heard over the Wireless after that statement. A crashing waterfall of battle cries echoed through space as the Swarm viciously charged to the still stunned Basestar.


	4. Phase 2: Illusory Reality

Something I forgot to do in the previous chapters. I do not own BSG or Homeworld.

Thought it might be interesting to try a little change in plot pace here. Don't worry, we'll be getting back to the battle very soon.

**Phase 2: Illusory Reality**

Onboard the Battlestar Galactica

Jared had no idea why alarm clocks hated him. But they did. He had blown 60 cubits on a "state-of-the-art" electronic clock to ensure that he'd be up and about a good 2 hours before the initial preparations of the decommissioning ceremony, figuring it would be a good investment when he was reassigned to another battle group and put back on the rigid flight schedule. But the damn thing, with an alarm that rivaled that of the Galactica's Action Stations alert, hadn't even made a pitter when it was supposed to; worse, the daily bugle, which would have otherwise ensured Jared at least a good 30 minutes of time, had been disabled due to all the screwing around the tech guys where doing with the ship's electrical systems, trying to convert an old warhorse into a pretty show horse in the course of a few weeks. It had taken the polite nudging of a random Ensign to rouse him from sleep, whereupon he came to the realization that he had less than 5 minutes to get ready least the CAG gain permanent procession of his balls.

Lucky, the young Lieutenant was rather used to situations like these. In the course of 3 minutes, he was fully decked in his Dress Grays, the leather sash draped across his shoulder decorated with the small, various honors he'd received from his impressive performances throughout flight school and his early assignments. He spent his last 2 minutes looking himself over in the mirror of his locker, spoofing his ear-length locks of jet-black hair and making sure a small amount at the back of his head was slightly spiked before he headed to the door of the otherwise empty duty locker, releasing the dead bolt and heaving it open.

Even though he had prepared himself as he always did, the aqua-tinted light of the hallway still blinded his amethyst-colored eyes for an instant, to the point that he had to shield them for several moments. He sighed, more or less at a loss as to why they insisted on keeping the things so bright. When he recovered he began at a jog down the vast, A-shaped corridor in the direction of the starboard flight deck, the echo of his footsteps joining the lively buzz and voices that already filled the passageway. Along the way he passed and politely greeted his scurrying deck mates; from a trio of young, orange-clad knuckle draggers to an almost fully outfitted member of the Marine detachment providing security outside of an Armory hatch. But just as he was making good time, he ran into a badly congested bottleneck, chock full of noisy civilian reporters and their bulky broadcasting equipment. They were led by a guy in a tacky green suit, who apparently thought he was the new resident expert on Battlestars. Jared rolled his eyes and shrugged irritably as he tried to calculate some manner of attack to force his way through.

Before he could try to put any into action, though, he felt a slender hand grip his well-defined left forearm. He turned to his side, and was greeted with the graciously beam of the brunette Petty Officer 2nd Class Sandra Abaris, who was sporting plain green fatigues instead of the orange utility jumpsuit he had previously seen her with during the few momentary converses they'd on the flight deck. "A bit of a traffic jam, ain't it Lieutenant?"

_Frak, Frak, Shit, Frak…_Jared thought frantically, wishing like hell he had spent a few more minutes spoofing. He was probably still lazy-eyed and groggy looking, and was overdue for a good shave. Gods knew if he had even put on deodorant before he left his locker. _Okay, play it very cool. You've got this, Jared. You have the ball…_

"Pfft, you're telling me. I was just about to decide wither to try to pull a Sam T. Anders move or not."

Sandra giggled as Jared put on a not-too toothy grin. _So far so good, I think…_

"3 months on this old horse and you still haven't learned all the ins and outs…" she declared, before yanking him to the side and into one of the narrower maintenance corridors. "Come on. 2 more minutes and we'll both be scrubbing latrines for the next week."

The maintenance hall was much more comfortably lit, and was lined with pipes and gauges that extended upwards into the darkness of the hull. It was designed as a one-person path, and Jared found himself hip-to-hip with Sandra most of the way as they slid forwards. As a result, it took him a good few seconds to completely compose himself, resulting in an awkwardly late response.

"Have you met the CAG? I'll be lucky not to spend the next month scrubbing his back if I miss this."

There came another invigorating laugh from Sandra, before they emerged from the corridor and into the midst of the crowd funneling its way into the starboard flight pod.

"Well," Jared said, turning around to face her. He could see his grin in her large, amber eyes. "Thank you, Petty Officer Abaris, for officially saving my roast." He gestured with his hands towards the entrance. "Shall we?"

"Ha ha, you're very welcome sir, but umm…" she bit her lip for a moment and looked back towards a smaller secondary hatch onto the flight deck. "I think commissioned officers are supposed to go through there and receive their seating arrangements."

_…frak…_

"Right, of course," Jared tried to laugh it off, scratching the back of his head. Sandra gave a departing smile. "Well, I'll see you inside, Lieutenant Aeson."

"Take care, Petty Officer Abaris."

They brushed shoulders before going in opposite directions. As he walked to the hatch Jared tallied up his interactions and concluded that he'd made some decent progress with the enchanting knuckle dragger; or at the very least he hadn't fraked up too many times. As he entered the bay, saluting the Marine guard and crossing his name off of a checklist, he decided to ask her to the mess hall later, depending on how well the day's events would play out.

Jared was relived when the same guy in the green suit got off the podium; not because it meant the old man was about to give his speech, but because he just really didn't like that tour guide for some reason. He clapped loudly for Commander Adama as he took his place in the spotlight, with the vast window of enchanting space as his backdrop and the huge banners of the 12 colonies to his flanks. The man looked good for his age, and he seemed confident as he put on his glasses and began the speech he had been practicing all morning.

But not more than 10 seconds into the speech, Jared, along with practically the entire audience, realized something was wrong. The commander lowered his head for a few awkward moments; Jared irritably wondered why the speechwriters had made such a damn complex and corny speech for the man to memorize. He was surprised when Adama came right back, giving a completely improvised and fluid speech that struck a sensitive chord among the entire of those gathered.

"Sooner or later, the day comes when you can't hide from the things that you've done, anymore."

Jared had been rather pleased as he drank in the old man's natural speaking ability. Up until he heard that line. Jared didn't know why, but a flood of emotions and memories chose that inappropriate instant to come back to him, in force. Memories from another life; one he had chosen to bury a long time ago.

He gritted his teeth and shook his head, trying to stave off the bitter reminiscences as applauds commenced and Commander Adama walked off the stage. Jared quickly regained his composure and gave his standing ovation, but a good distance behind and to the right of him, Sandra Abaris had bared witness to his entire 5 seconds of sudden grief. She clapped as well, but did not take her concerned tawny eyes off of the young pilot.

He later found himself sipping coffee in the rowdy mess hall. Alone.

Today wasn't a good day to press his luck with Sandra. Not after what happened at the ceremony anyways. Actually, being off duty, Jared contemplated hitting the bottle for the first time in a good month or so.

As he deliberated, the throaty, pulsating, but incredibly loud Condition 1 alert siren sounded throughout the ship. The collection of crewmen in the mess quickly exchanged a confused glance among one another, before abandoning their meals and card games, jumping over chairs and block-rushing the exit. Jared took a long look at the silver flask he had been about to partake of, before grudgingly capping it and placing it in his fatigue's cargo pocket. Before he joined the funnel making its way out, he smiled to himself…

_Maybe the Almighty still has my back after all…_


	5. Phase 3: The Return of the Exiles

Something I forgot to do in the previous chapters. I do not own BSG or Homeworld. Thank you guys for waiting, and especially for your positive reviews. They've really been a morale booster, what with school and all that junk i really havent had time to continue this story as much as i'd like to. I've heard a lot of requests for a Higaraan appearance and I am happy to report that they will definitly be making an appearance in the near future with a critical role to play, but that is still a ways off. Other than that, thanks guys, and please keep commenting.

**Phase 3: Return of the Exiles **

The Swarm was halfway to the staggering Basestar when it finally began to show signs of life. The colossal vessel, having gained some knowledge of its bearings, lazily angled its upper half to face the approaching Vrijbuiter capital ships; twinkling azure lights suddenly erupted from the nearest arm of the Y-shaped hull and whizzed towards the advancing destroyer Hassan, leaving thin trails of white in their wake. A shrill, pulsating beep went off over Abel's head and was sustained for several seconds, while an orange cross suddenly burned across his HUD. His heart skipped a beat.

"Use of Atomics are confirmed!" he shouted excitedly. "Boaz, Mikel; intercept them NOW!"

"Confirmed!" were the responses from his squad leaders. 2 wings of Stingers instantly veered away from the Swarm and hurtled at a sharp angle into the vast expanse between the dueling capital ships. They sprawled away from each other and took their pick of the 3 approaching nuclear warheads, forming a rough box around their predicted trajectories. Abel and the Swarm, who was still blitzing towards the Baseship, arced their heads back for a second to oversee as the interceptors allowed the warheads to pass their squadron's furthermost Stingers. Then, all at once, brilliant indigo sparks erupted from their noses, forming and sustaining a carefully formulated crossfire. Mercifully, none of the luminous Cylon Atomics made it through the gauntlet; all 3 veered away at awkward angles, bleeding smoke and flames before expiring in a short-lived puff of fire and smoke.

As he had his head turned Abel could also partially see the Hassan, whom after finally entering the effective engagement range of 4,500 meters, had rotated so that its starboard broadside defiantly faced the aggressor. The obliquely-angled starboard extension, twice the length of the one on portside and doubling the length of the ship overall, glistened menacingly as distant stellar light refracted off its obsidian-black flesh. The eerie green light that filtered through the starboard side windows, all located in a narrow row and tucked inside of a deep protective grove that ran the length of the extension, bled out like a fleeting dusk as scales of heavy armored plating slid down from the grove's outcropping, shielding them and preventing aggravating events of decompression. The destroyer's vast sensory array, protruding from the starboard extension's bow and greatly resembling a yellow, elongated and slender scorpion pincer, emitted powerful waves of DRADIS, sonar, and infrared; pinning the location of the Basestar through the scramble of electronic jamming being emitted by wither vessal.

Columns of smoke and steam discharged from the dorsal silos of the narrow starboard extension, as 4 heavy fusion missiles slowly launched at a vertical trajectory until they were just above the Hassan. For a few instants the warheads seemed to float motionlessly in the air; in reality the projectiles where momentarily reorienting themselves with their targets. Abruptly, all 4 fired their second stage hypergolic rockets and began to hurtle downrange towards the Cylon Basestar; at the same time, veins of bottled plasma running along the sides of the projectiles burst open, engulfing the missiles in an other-worldly red-orange haze while leaving a similarly hued trail. Meanwhile, the massive, oval-shaped turrets located on the flattened deck of the destroyer hungrily hummed as they put the distant monstrosity into their firing solutions and waited for the Hassan to close a few more meters; each pair of wide-mouthed, cylindrical barrels droned in anticipation as they slowly extended from the protective turrets like a turtle's head from its shell.

The Swarm was upon the Basestar long before the missiles. His hands shaking with rabid anticipation, Abel screamed into the Wireless at his harried followers, "Target the weapons and launching bays! Let us see if fear be among their program processes!"

Bold, spine-chilling shouts and screams scratched the airwaves as the Swarm fell upon the lone Basestar like frenzied ants upon the carcass of a cricket. Wings of Stingers rapidly banked around and made strafing runs on the corners of the Y-shaped hemispheres, pummeling the exposed missile turrets with blue-white streams of energy-enhanced projectiles before peeling away, only to bank around and strafe another nearby target. Abel made one such high-speed pass on the furthermost arm of the upper half; untold glee and exhilaration throbbed through his body as the whip of the turn smashed him into the seat. He struggled to bring the bubble-shaped missile turret in line with the crosshair on his HUD as he tore through space, the scream of his assault craft's engine like that of a banshee in his ears. He practically strangled the trigger, signaling the KEW gatling cannon under him to unleash its blessing; a torrent of pulse-blue tracer rounds sprayed forwards and cascaded upon the turret. A explosion suddenly occurred as the rounds struck a loaded missile that had been seconds from launching. With a throaty gasp Abel veered away desperately as a fierce fireball erupted from the Basestar's hull; shockwaves violently shook Abel's Stinger while tiny fragments pinged against its fuselage. He could hear the moan of the Cylon ship's superstructure buckling under the weight of decompression and the loss of structural integrity; already he could see the ragged edges of the vast hole that had been blasted into the side of the ship by detonated ammunition reserves. But most of all, he could hear the invigorating roar of his Swarm, who had burst into hysterical glee at the first sign of drawn blood. Abel laughed loudly as he brought the Stinger back under control.

The threshold alarm went off in Abel's cockpit; a short bark of high-pitched noise and red light that signaled that the Hassan's ordinance was seconds away from impact. The Swarm automatically vacated that side of the Basestar, dropping away and rapidly turning about to witness the fireworks that were sure to come.

Like a meteor the first missile struck the Basestar on the underside of its upper hemisphere. A flash of red light was instantly joined by a vehement hiss as the field of scolding plasma burned away the outermost layer of the vessel, eating at its underlying dermis of wires and electronics like acid and allowing the warhead to lodge itself in the very innards of the ship before the heavy fusion package went off. The noise was the deafening bellow of an ancient behemoth, instantly supplemented by a hair-raising screech of crumpling metal, the horrid and ghastly moan of the collapsing superstructure, and the immense bawl of explosive decompression. Abel had to squint his eyes as a heavenly white flash took place before him, followed by the swirling vortex of burning atmosphere and the black rain of shrapnel. The 3 other missiles impacted almost simultaneously on the central stalk that held the 2 Y hemispheres together. The Swarm uttered its vicious farewell as the trio of shockwaves rattled their stomachs and the blinding flashes commenced. Having suffered incredible damage, the Basestar's 2 halves collapsed upon themselves while the hull imploded from within. 3 seconds later, and the whole thing simply exploded in a final, lingering fireball that spat impressively sized chunks of burning wreckage into the 4 cardinal directions. The Swarm lazily dodged the larger debris and reformed into their respective wings, whooping and cheering the entire way.

"Kimora, target destroyed." Abel reported simply, the grin on his face easily identifiable in his voice as well. "This was a cakewalk!" Shem exclaimed, earning several approving guffaws in return. Abel favorably observed the large chunks of wreckage that laid scattered about in front of him, among them a few largely intact Raiders that had been violently ejected by the decompression before the Baseship was completely destroyed; the shock from the event was apparently enough to kill whatever form of pilot the menacing craft held. Abel almost salivated as he thought of peeling away some of that sexy Cylon tech and slapping it onto his Stinger; the Raiders' sleek thruster pods and engines sang an especially enchanting call.

"Kimora, this is Suicide Corps, you are clear to send in the salvage operations; Boaz, Mikel, your wings stay here and keep an eye on the salvage craft. Everyone else, head back to base. Out."

The 2 squadrons of corvettes, having dropped off their Templer boarding components on the refinery ships, now made their way towards the wreak of the Basestar and eagerly began to anchor some of the larger, more intact portions with harpoons and cables, before dragging them back to the approaching Kimora. Over the wireless, Enosh's deep and rousing voice was pleasantly calm as he declared from his CIC to the returning Swarm.

"A fine start to our glorious campaign. Return home." At the conclusion of his second statement, the crews of the capital ships began to cheer wildly, bringing a warm feeling of content in the hearts of the Stinger pilots.

"Confirmed; beginning approach now Kimora." Abel acknowledged. "Swarm, recover!"

The wings reformed with a level of orderliness many would not have credited to pirates, clumping back into their arrowhead-shaped columns and banking around languidly before strolling back to their carrier. Less than ten seconds passed before the DRADIS chirped nervously in Abel's face. The female acolyte in the Kimora's CIC once again serenaded through the commander's headset with alarmed beauty.

"Commander Abel, you have massive incoming, I repeat…!"

Abel did not hear the whole of that transmission. Actually, at that moment he doubted he would ever hear anything again for the remainder of his violent life, because his entire world had been drowned in a spectacularly horrific noise. He cried out, clutching his ears as the howls of every accused demon dwelling in Hades screeched at the highest pitch, amplified by a vast, unseen metallic corridor. Abel felt his chest reverberate so intensely, for a moment he was convinced that his heart would simply be shocked into crippling failure. He could feel his Stinger shudder from nose to tail, could sense the strain its fuselage struggled to endure.

Then, as if the Almighty One's great hand had slammed the gates to the Abyss, it was silent, albeit for the distant buzz that lingered in Abel's ears. His left ear suddenly felt warm, and a viscous prickle of blood began to pool out of it, forming tiny droplets in the weightless cockpit. But the young pilot did not seem to notice. His gaze was directed upwards through the roof of his canopy, over which an all-consuming shadow had been cast. His mouth hung open, as if the strong muscles that lined his jaw had simply lost the will to function.

Overhead, mere meters away from him, the outreaching arm of a second Basestar loomed like God's accusing finger, blotting out the distant sun and replacing its warm yellow shimmer with an artificial, sickly purple haze from its underbelly. Another sound forced its way into the Virjbuiter's damaged ears; a revolting squish and shudder of flesh being turned asunder. Abel's innards froze as the underside of the Basestar's arm crawled and retracted, imitating perfectly the sight of a lung expelling its host's breath as dozens of pitch black slits were revealed.

Abel's heart skipped a beat; then another. Each of the slits had suddenly become illuminated by fierce, red orbs of oscillating light.


End file.
